


Literature

by Tambores (LovelyAche)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyAche/pseuds/Tambores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which things malfunction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Literature

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted the 31th of August, 2009 to my Livejournal.

_Useless._ The Master muttered under his breath. _What an utter waste of time._ However thoughts of wrongness crossed his mind, it didn’t change the trajectory of his actions.

There was a pen and a little black – brand new, it said – notebook on the counter; human, he’d realized that as soon as his fingers slid across the rough leather of its cover, only humans could produce such pitiable items and dare to ship them over. He shook his head slowly, antagonizing so.

_The Doctor would have liked it._ But the Doctor had always been unable to run without looking back, all ruthlessness and fear; oh- he told himself that, but the Master knew better, that the Doctor wouldn’t had been able to take a step out without having it all previously saved away. Now, he couldn’t run away at all. Wasn’t he such a good _friend_?

The pen was all over the yellowed paper as soon as the notebook fell open. He scribbled quickly, fast enough that pages upon pages were written from top to bottom in almost no time at all. Pages of little doodles and fancy handwriting on something that was not quite English, without being entirely foreign either. A simple shift forward, or was it backward? No, that was not it.

It was difficult, for the Master to be able to pour down his plans in a way that anyone else was able to understand him; and he didn’t _want_ to, but it had become necessary and inevitable for any longer. Still, it was highly unlikely anyone else – but his dear friends – would be able to understand it. That alone was enough to make him grin and press the pen down hard enough to break through the thin sheets.

Sometimes, it was _fiction_ , the Master wrote of things that were not and would never be real. Never as himself.

Of shadowy planets, and lonely deserts with no oasis, tribes with no names and creatures that were not meant to be seen. It was all there, inside one of the poorly made notebooks. Literature of sorts. Of Kings and emperors, gods and devils – everything that raged inside his head. Stories with happy endings, terrible tragedies, or no ending at all.

There was written material on virtually _anything_.

“…and with one last thought, the young rebel ran away without looking back ever again. Hated by his people and by himself.” He stopped writing, contemplating the last sentence with a slow tap against the table’s surface.

Today, his amusement was guaranteed. Or wouldn’t his friend like to hear of another story? Why, yes. He always did.


End file.
